


Not Him

by darkmagess



Series: The Smoke of Charleston Clings [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Bottom!Flint, Canon Compliant, Drunkenness, M/M, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 09:10:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7612279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkmagess/pseuds/darkmagess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few days after leaving Charleston in ruins, the crew lands at Tortuga to resupply and fix the ship. Flint disappears into town, not having said a word to Billy about the conversation where he revealed his past. Billy finds him drunk in a tavern, and his grieving takes a new turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Him

Billy squinted up at the sun, already feeling sweat gather on the back of his neck. It was morning with nothing but persistent, clear blue skies. They’d had favorable weather and good winds, whisking them toward Tortuga. He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and smoothed it open just enough to read his own notes. _Deck cleaning: Davis his crew, Rigging and lines: Ben, Jim & Vane his crew, Gun deck: Vane, Mainmast…_

He looked up at the rigging and sails, lately repaired from Silver’s sabotage, and scowled. It didn’t look right. Wasn’t acting right. But they’d need the full stay in port to fix it properly, so until then he kept his eyes on it, waiting for something to fray and snap and strand them all.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a dark shape move with a heavy tread and turned away from it to go find Davis and see how his crew was getting on.

They hadn’t talked. Not since that night. Billy hadn’t been _avoiding_ him, exactly. He felt a tingle at the base of his skull or a rush at his neck and then found something that needed doing. And Flint… He couldn’t say if the captain had been avoiding him in particular. But Billy could feel him, wherever he went; a lighthouse, luminous and screaming its presence.

Lighthouses told you where _not_ to be.

Guilt and embarrassment rolled inside, struggling with one another, knocking over his good sense and pride. He couldn’t tell _what_ he should feel, except the sum of the effect: a burning anticipation. Every moment he envisioned a dressing down, a lashing from Flint’s foul temper after he’d worked it up into a lather. But so far… nothing. Just a sensation of his presence, sending out a beacon to rattle Billy’s nerves.

Billy felt a beam of attention on his shoulders as he stopped, and Davis glanced at him with raised eyebrows.

“Need anything?” Billy asked him, trying to seem invested. Although what anyone could need for cleaning a deck he wasn’t quite sure.

Davis’s face scrunched as he turned back to his work, pushing a mop out and hauling it back. “Nah. News on Silver?” Swish. Slop.

Billy heaved a sigh, shoulders itching. “Still out. Moved him to the Captain’s quarters. The bleeding has slowed. That’s all I know.”

Davis kicked a bucket along the deck and moved to follow it. He didn’t look up. “The men, you know. Want to vote.” He offered a quick glance. “You should call it.”

“For Silver?” Billy glanced around the other men in Davis’s crew, mopping and scrubbing silently. They each paused long enough to give him a look and a nod.

Well, he hadn’t quite expected that…

“Sure,” he told them. “Before we leave Tortuga.” The promise seemed to satisfy, and Billy wandered away, troubled that this was news to him; that Flint had so crowded his attention he’d missed the way the men’s moods were blowing. He wasn’t likely to forget to call a meeting, but he took the script from his pocket and scribbled a note anyway.

He paced the deck, rolling gently with the seas, and checked in on the work crews. The creaks of the mainmast drew his eyes a few times, but it looked secure enough. He tested a knot to be sure, pulling it a little tighter just in case. A gust of salty air tightened his skin, and Billy drew a constricted breath before letting his eyes find Flint. He was leaning on the poop deck railing watching the horizon. The black coat flapped out behind him.

Billy’s heart did a jump. If _he_ was looking, the captain might look back. And then what?

He scowled at himself, at this _fear_ , and squared himself.

Flint hadn’t moved by the time Billy stood at his side, stooping a little to temper his physical presence, and when the captain finally straightened to look at him, it was a blank slate of an expression, barely holding recognition.

“Yes?” Flint’s voice rasped out without emotion.

Billy frowned a little, shifted his weight, and gave his report of the crew’s activity. Also his concern about the mainmast and general misgivings over Vane’s men, although for now they were doing what they were told. Flint received this in stone-faced silence, only lifting an eyebrow when Billy informed him that the crew wanted to have a meeting about Silver.

“What for?”

Billy shrugged. “Well… we _are_ short a quartermaster.”

This earned a small huff and even smaller nod, and then their business was done. Captain Flint turned back to staring at the sea, and Billy watched him for the briefest of moments, almost daring himself to push the subject. He’d crossed a line. And not knowing the consequences of crossing that line… It was sure to drive him mad. But neither should a condemned man wish the axe to fall any sooner than it must, so he let it go. Backed away and tucked his notes back into his pocket.

 

 

Tortuga grew on the horizon, a green-backed hump in the glistening sea, and a chatter went up through the crew as they adjusted the sails and swung the ship for Fort de Rocher. Land. Women. Rum. Decent food. They’d seen nothing but failure since leaving Nassau, and the promise of balms to their many needs lifted their spirits with smiles.

Even Billy couldn’t fight that tide, and he felt his chest loosen the closer they grew to shore. His responsibilities would be no fewer then, but his body never quite understood that. It knew land and constancy and the shade under a green tree as a fraction of paradise.

Vane trudged up from the gun deck, and Billy moved to meet him.

“Well?”

Vane cut him a sly and silent look, every bit a cat made man, then offered a folded piece of paper and crossed his arms. Billy opened the note and read. It was a shopping list. A thousand cannonballs for the 24 and 12 pounders. Seven hundred barrels of powder…

A chill ripped down Billy’s spine, and his eyes flicked to meet Vane’s. “Are you serious?”

The man shrugged languidly. “You asked what was needed.”

“Do you have any idea how much this is gonna cost?” Billy shook the list at him.

Vane’s piercing eyes narrowed. “I know _exactly_ how much.”

“We can’t—”

“You asked for my suggestion. I’m giving it. You won’t beat the _Scarborough_ with less.”

Billy scowled at him, about to say more, when the second mate shouted his name. He glanced at a huddle of men, then back at Vane, who offered a smirk and sauntered away. Perhaps it was in the nature of captains to be irritating. With a curse, Billy added the list to his growing collection and went to see what everyone was standing about for. Maybe if they _had_ the Urca gold, but damn…

It took hours to actually come into port. With a ship this size, they had to warp her into the berth and fix the rigging for an extended stay. Sails had to be secured, lines properly coiled. Billy had made several more lists in addition to what Vane had given him. They needed food and water and regular small munitions. With no blasted quartermaster to keep it all straight, he was relying on counts from various members of the crew and hoping they had schooling. The biggest thing was going to be the mainstay repair. He’d put together the list of resources for that himself and had stood staring up at it a long time while they turned the capstan and dragged the ship in.

The men buzzed with pent up energy and crowded the main deck as Billy gave out out assignments, some for purchasing, some for loading.

“Billy!” a voice called out.

He spun, looking.

“What about Silver?”

“What?” He couldn’t see who was talking and shook his head a little. “I said we’d—”

“Someone’s got ta _watch_ him!” A different voice announced, and a roar of cheering followed.

“I’ve got first watch!” That was Davis.

Billy caught Flint’s eye, observing from the quarter deck. It was _his_ cabin, after all.

“Put me next!” Harrison.

“I’ll do it!”

“You’re an untrustworthy sod, and ya stink. Not ’im. Put me in!”

Volunteers rose up all around, and Billy gestured at Flint for some sort of ruling before they started stamping their feet. He gave a slow nod, and Billy tossed his hands up.

“All right! All right… Davis first.” He nodded to the next volunteer. “Then Harrison…” Ten volunteered altogether. And if they needed to stay longer, they’d loop back to the start. “Anything _else_?” Billy asked pointedly, even looking at Vane for comment.

After a few seconds and a couple anxious coughs, he waved them away. “All right. Go! We’re officially at port.” The various papers in his hand flapped and crackled with the motion, and the crew scattered. Somewhere in the bustle, Flint disappeared. Billy felt his absence as the deck cleared like a cloud blotting out the sun. Tension bled out of him.

While nearly everyone else applied themselves thoroughly to their pleasures, Billy had to oversee the resupply. The men dispatched their orders quickly, eager to get to the taverns and find the bottom of a tankard, and so it wasn’t long before the carts started to arrive and the simple, grueling labor of loading began. Billy made his counts and added lines to the ledger. He wrestled barrels of water and barrels of powder into their places in the hold along with a few of the strongest in the crew, and built a fine and thorough ache through every muscle by the time night fell.

There was plenty left to do, but no will left to do it. Dooley, on first watch, clapped him on the back and shoved him toward the planks.

“Billy! You sweaty pig. Go!”

He trudged toward the railing, and the wind picked up, chilling his soaked shirt. He gave Dooley a doubtful look, the weariness dragging at him.

“Fer chrissakes, lad. We’re at shore! Act like it!” Dooley shoved at him again, and Billy managed a longsuffering smirk as he hopped up and strode the gangway to the pier.

 

 

He followed the lights.

Oil lanterns barely illuminated the dock, but they marked a trail for a wandering man to follow. Around him, drunk sailors clasped one another, stumbling back toward their ships and hooting jokes in languages he didn’t speak. The French and Spanish had switched ownership of the island so many times, he couldn’t actually remember who owned it now.

The heat and humidity of the day still lingered, leaving the air thick. When a breeze blew, it was almost bearable. He turned up the main street, searching the buildings for signs he recognized from their last visit. Turn right at the barber and he should find Le Perroquet Jaune.

If he’d been paying better attention, Billy might have noted a great deal of noise coming from le Perroquet. As was, he let muscle memory carry him to the door, stepping over a groaning man on the porch, and open it. He stepped in, eyes lifting to the commotion, and inhaled a lungful of acrid, smoky air. He squinted and coughed, first instinct telling him the place was on fire, and threw his arm across his face as a shield as several women screamed.

Confusion reigned for a fraction of a second, as he saw a man in front of him grab a chair and lunge for another. Panic kicked his ribs, and Billy scanned the whole interior. Men shouting. Fighting. Throwing punches and stumbling from pain or booze. He jumped sideways as a sailor came barreling toward the door, bleeding from his nose and mouth.

The sudden rush of adrenaline washed the tiredness and aches from his body, but a brawl was _not_ Billy’s idea of restful shore leave. Some men needed the outlet, but you risked being the one left bloody and broken. Pulse beating in his hands, Billy backed out the door as quickly as he’d come, cautious that no one eyed him as a new and untested contender. His size and heavy build made him a target for those wanting to prove their prowess. More often than not, they failed. But he didn’t _like_ it and didn’t seek it out. He left le Perroquet with quick, sure strides and allowed his newfound alertness to carry him through the streets.

He heard music, but couldn’t tell from where. It drifted on a warm breeze, followed by perfume. The trail led him to a dark building, with warm light spilling from the windows. The shapes of women in dresses crowded the porch and street. He couldn’t see their features, but they wagged their fingers and dipped their heads with what he imagined to be coquettish expressions.

Sultry, “Hi”s and “Mmm, look at this one”s followed him as he slipped by them and pressed his way inside. _Are you sure?_ his body thought with a liquid, warm pulse, sending him sense memories of a breast filling his palm, knees clenching his waist. He wasn’t. But he had some time.

This public house looked more to his liking. Most everyone gathered around tables, seated with friends and chatting in voices that blended to bubbling gabble. He scanned the room for his own shipmates, and his gaze unexpectedly landed on Captain Flint. Billy hovered just inside the doorway and stepped aside, watching. Flint sat alone, with two dark bottles on the table in front of him. He took a drink from a glass, after staring at it a while, and then looked sharply across the room toward the bar.

Billy’s gaze flicked to follow it. Some man he’d never seen before grabbed a barmaid by the wrist and pulled her closer while she struggled. Billy looked back at Flint, and his heart started to pound. The captain narrowed his eyes, and a dangerous scowl settled onto his face. He placed his glass down carefully. Lurched unsteadily to his feet.

_Shit._

Billy’s stomach flipped with foreboding. Pulse quickening, he threaded into the room, weaving between tables and servers. A woman kicked him in a fit of false fancy by accident, flattering her client, but he ignored her apologies and pressed through to the bar.

“—her alone!” Too late. Flint’s low growl skittered over Billy’s senses, and he saw him shove the offender back.

_Shit, shit._

“Who the fuck—”

A knife flashed in the man’s hand, and Flint smiled like the devil himself as he signaled for the girl to leave.

Time slowed as Billy drew the pistol from his belt and surged at the man from behind. He shoved the barrel into his spine and snapped an arm around his neck in one swift motion. He kept the pistol hidden between his own body and the bar and spoke low into the man’s ear.

“We don’t need to cause a scene tonight. And I’m sure you’ll agree it’s a bad idea for any man to find himself on Captain Flint’s bad side.”

The struggling grip on Billy’s arm loosened at the mention of Flint’s name, and the man stared. “Flint, you say?” he asked quietly.

Billy just nodded, rubbing their cheeks together. “So,” he said, watching Flint now. “Do we have an understanding?”

The man nodded with quick, terrified jerks, and Billy let him go. He sneered at Flint as he put away his knife and grabbed a drink off the bar before storming away to nurse his wounded pride. Flint glared at him until he would’ve had to turn to keep following and then locked that baleful look on Billy.

“I didn’t need your help.”

“Really?” Billy stowed the pistol back in his belt. “Cause you can barely walk.” He should’ve gone weak under that glare. There was a time he would have. But now annoyance clawed at his chest, and he pushed past the captain to pick up the bottles and check their fill. He swished around what was left in the second one, but Flint snagged the bottle from him and emptied it with one long pull, head tilted back. The captain wavered when he righted and struggled to put the bottle down firmly without it falling over.

“Jesus,” Billy scowled at him. “You’re not gonna make it back to the ship.” He shook his head and flagged down the barmaid Flint had nearly started a fight over. She gave them both nods of thanks and waited. “You have rooms?”

 _“Oui.”_ She gave Flint a quick glance up and down, looking concerned as he touched one of the bottles, knocking it over and picking it up again with a curse.

“Get me one?” Billy’s imploring voice drew her attention back, and he offered her a few coins.

She bobbed in a little curtsy and hurried back behind the bar. After a short chat with an older man, probably the owner, she returned with a key and pressed it into Billy’s hand, nodding at him with approval.

A chair scuffed beside him, and Billy turned to see Flint dropping back into place with a blank expression in his glassy eyes. He stared at the empty bottles for a moment before being struck with an idea, then lifted a hand in the barmaid’s direction.

“Bring me—”

“No.” Billy waved the girl off and took the opportunity to hook a hand under Flint’s upper arm.

He tried to jerk away. “Who the fuck do you think—” Gravel and scorch.

Billy jerked him back just as forcefully and then hauled him to his feet with surprising power. “Someone trying to give a shit,” Billy ground out, glaring down at him. He rarely put physical intimidation to use, but not because he _couldn’t_.

Anger and resentment flashed into a lightning storm, and for a very long moment Flint’s expression barely held back a sneer. His chest heaved, and Billy loosened his grip to something less than crushing, but he glared and towered and held his challenge.

“Captain,” he said evenly.

Flint blinked.

“Come on…” Billy broke the battle of wills first and glanced toward the stairs to the rooms.

The muscle in Flint’s jaw flexed while he glared at the stairwell. Then he lurched forward, listing heavily to one side, and Billy had to crowd him to aim his fumbling steps. They said nothing as they ascended, Flint holding himself up with one hand on the wall. His boots scuffed against the steps, and Billy shadowed him as though he could be of some use. When they reached the top, the captain stood waiting for him, wavering in place with a glimmer of resentment in his eyes that made Billy’s pulse race.

Billy glanced at him and swallowed before looking down at the key in his hand. He matched the engraving to a door and gestured, letting Flint make his own unsteady way. Billy slid the key in the lock, and it turned with an audible click. He pushed the door in and stepped aside. Flint ignored him, and swayed so far to the right he almost missed the door. Billy caught his arm, holding him steady, and then let him loose like releasing a fish back into the sea.

He followed him inside and closed the door, then turned to see Flint staring at him with a look Billy could not decipher. It burrowed to his bones, slipped inside and made him quiver with a fear he hated and couldn’t conquer. He felt flayed and exposed. _This_ , he thought, _is the axe falling._

Captain Flint lunged for him.

Billy jumped and jerked back, only to find Flint’s hand twisted into his shirt. Another pulled at the back of his neck, and in the breath of realizing he wasn’t under attack, Flint kissed him. Nothing like before. Flint kissed _him_ , full and hungrily bruising. Billy lost track of his hands. Just lips and wet. Heart pounding to catch up. Teeth scored his mouth, quick and desperate. _Slow down!_

A sharp pain.

With a jolt and flash of anger, Billy shoved him away, panting. He touched a finger to his lip to test for blood and scowled down, shaking with the rush of power and lust. “The hell was that for?”

Flint just stared at him with luminous drunk eyes trying to catch his breath. He looked feral with a smear of Billy’s blood on his lip.

Fighting the urge to circle, Billy narrowed his eyes. “Are you—Are you _trying_ to make me angry?” A dark little smile touched Flint’s lips. “But… why? I’m trying to _help_ you.” He touched his lip again, appalled at the insult more than the sting.

A complicated expression broke the mask of Flint’s face as his shoulders sagged, and he moved closer, careful this time as he placed his hands on Billy’s collarbone and brushed out toward his shoulders, gazing at the tanned skin his shirt left exposed. Flint smelled of rum and leather. By the thrill sparking up his spine and the rush of heat to his groin, Billy knew the request being made. Perhaps… one the captain thought would only be granted in anger.

“What do you want?” he asked him, gently lifting Flint’s hands from his shoulders.

Flint backed up a pace, the scowl melting from his expression. “To feel something.” He slurred the words, and a lost look filled his features.

Pity welled in Billy’s heart, adding to the emotions battering around. “You’re drunk,” he said.

“It didn’t help.” Flint lifted his head a little in challenge. _Do better._

Their gazes met, and Captain Flint stared back at him, burning with the dare, broiling with defiance. Flint had always been a dangerous man, a ruthless and calculating one. Billy remembered Singleton’s blood smeared across his mouth and face. He had snarled and shown white teeth, and Billy had never seen him such an animal.

But this. Now. This thing he’d started back on the ship. He couldn’t circumscribe it with words. It made his core shake, his throat tighten. It was the wild thrill of being lashed to the mast in a storm. The howling darkness. Whipping winds. Rain cutting at your face, stinging as your blood sings. Skin so cold, stunned by each new icy blast of water. But alive, _alive_ , drunk on terror and shouting triumph over fear and nature.

That was this. He extended his hand to a dragon, flush with intoxicating fear.

Before he could change his mind, Billy crossed the floor and pulled Flint into a kiss less brutal than the last. He sucked hard and licked the sting, asking for entry. With his free hand, he shucked off the leather coat and let it slither to the floor. So much less the captain without it. Much more the man.

Tongues touched, liquid heat. And a pained moan vibrated between them, its source lost to need and affirmation. Billy pressed, backing Flint up until his legs hit the bed, and he let him fall. He crouched, pulling one boot off, then the other, while Flint watched him on propped elbows. He reached for the belt, and Flint’s panted breathing stopped as Billy’s hands grazed him, took breeches in both hands and stripped them away quick and rough. He left him his shirt, and the collar skewed low across shoulder and chest as the captain edged backwards.

Billy’s mouth went dry at the sight. He looked small. Human. So much pale and freckled flesh. He could see an erection peeking at the hem of the shirt. For _him._ Flint’s branding gaze dropped to Billy’s chest, sparking hot flashes of pride and a small smile. Billy stood, legs quaking a little at this madness, and pulled his shirt off, revealing hard muscle cast in bronze. Beads and necklaces fell back to his skin with a shuffling sound. Flint’s eyes roamed over him, scorching. Billy carefully placed his pistol on the ground, and then undid the belt holding his pouches in place.

Flint’s gaze followed his hands, and he licked at his lower lip with widening eyes. Heat coiled in Billy’s stomach, flowed with an ache to his cock while he stood at the foot of the bed.

“Is this what you want?” Billy asked him. It came out wrong, like a taunt, like he wanted to hear the captain beg. He _meant_ , “Are you sure?” Flint frowned a little at him, like he didn’t want to trust his answer, but then rolled onto his stomach and pressed up onto hands and knees.

_Christ above._

It hurt to take a breath. He shouldn’t be doing this. Not when the man’s drunk, not when he’s grieving. But the shirt slid up revealing smooth hard muscle, unbroken by scars. Billy’s blood surged at the sight, the submission and offer. The _ache_ , Christ.

“No,” he breathed in a rough voice, surprising even himself, and crawled onto the bed to grab Flint’s ankle. “Not like this.” He urged him to roll over, and Flint frowned up at him in hurt confusion. Billy held his gaze. “I want you to look at me,” he said, running his rough hand up Flint’s calf to the knee and circling gently. It earned a shudder and parted lips. “I’m not him,” he said, recalling Flint’s confession, his lost love, each word weighing a heartbeat. He wouldn’t have thought he’d had the courage for it. Giving orders, making demands.

Flint’s chest rose and fell and he said nothing. The coals in his eyes burned hotter, and he spread his legs a little farther apart.

Billy remembered to breathe, the shock of fresh air going straight to his head. He shuffled back off the bed and reached for one of the pouches on his belt. He retrieved a small jar and returned, insinuating himself between open knees. Flint’s eyes followed the jar as he opened it and set it down.

“Lanolin,” Billy said to his questioning gaze. Used to grease the ropes and help heal cuts. Other things, if you’re as inventive as he’d had occasion to be.

A trickle of sweat slipped down his spine as the small room grew hotter, cloying with tropical weather. With a glance at those dark, hungry eyes, Billy pushed his own breeches down so they pooled at his knees. His cock hung hard and heavy, already anticipating heat and pleasure. Flint’s eyes flashed. Billy dipped his fingers in the lanolin and smeared a bit onto the shaft. Stroked himself to spread it around, slick and warm. Energy curled through him, lust licking at his skin as he pulled lightly. Quick flicks to get himself ready. Flint’s body moved with a slight rock at the hips as he watched and exhaled unsteadily.

When he felt himself wanting to groan, he stopped. And without asking, Billy hooked his hands under Flint’s knees and hauled him bodily closer—a small show of strength. The white shirt rode up the captain’s chest, revealing more pale and dotted flesh, this marked by an expanse of scars, many whose making Billy had witnessed. Flint didn’t react to the handling and dropped his head back, waiting.

Such _acquiescence_. Billy squeezed at the flesh beneath his hands, testing the reality of it. He had been granted… touch. The sheer improbability of it. To transgress the captain’s every mask. The _power_ of that beat through his blood. Alive, _alive_ in the howling storm.

The slicked fingers of Billy’s right hand traced along the curve of his partner’s ass, searching for a concentration of heat. Tightest muscle. Chest heaving, Billy pressed with patience, and Flint gasped. His hands splayed wide on the sheets, rings flashing in the lamp light, and a small sound broke from his throat. Billy stroked with his free hand over calf and stomach and chest in apology. But pressed a little harder. He had big, thick fingers. It could take—

“Do it.”

He glanced up at Flint’s face--turned aside--and frowned at his short panting.

“But…”

“Billy!” Snarled.

His stomach clenched at the whip of temper, but he obeyed. Flint grunted at the breaching, and Billy forgot caution.

So hot. So tight. Billy’s body throbbed with the desire to rut, urged by the broken breaths and almost whimpers.

“Enough!” Flint shoved at his arm. “Just do it,” he growled and pierced him with a glare.

It hadn’t been long enough, but Billy was pinned by the command in his voice, the authority and intensity. He frowned his misgivings but didn’t dare a rebuke, and he wanted, _wanted_ to touch everywhere, elicit moans from so unexpected a throat. His body sloughed its weariness as Billy hooked one elbow under Flint’s knee to lift him up and guided his cock to the cleft, letting out a steadying breath. His skin was too small, lungs inadequate. Billy huffed and adjusted his grip on Flint’s leg, their bodies starting to sweat where they connected, then pressed, pressed.

He winced at the resistance. Too much. Too tight. _Jesus, God._ Flint’s body stiffened as he started to sink in, a reaction that flew up warning flags. He wanted to stop. Flint exhaled hard, and Billy froze, but then found himself wrapped around the waist, a strong leg keeping up the pressure, forcing him in.

Billy let out a grunt of effort and relief when he ground in, fully sheathed. He took a moment to breathe and adjust, knees hooked over elbows for leverage. His cock ached in protest at the pressure, and he moved because he _had_ to. God… be… damned it was tighter than a fist. He drew back and pressed in experimentally, letting a groan tumble out without meaning to as he overcame the resistance.

He tried again, not quite as far, going slow. A bead of sweat traced down his arm as his nerves ignited. When his chest started to burn, he realized he’d been holding his breath and let it out. Harsh pants sounded from beneath him, scouring the air.

It was _too_ tight. Shaking his head, Billy dropped one of Flint’s legs and reached for the jar of lanolin. He added a bit more to himself on the next cautious stroke and made a pleased sound when the slide of skin went easier and sparks burst through his groin, spreading molten pleasure.

“Harder,” Flint ground out, and Billy frowned down at him, body protesting from the control he’d been exerting.

 _Listen_ , the ladies taught him. _Obey._ He pulled out from that delicious heat and fucked in with more snap and muscle. Once. Twice.

“More!” A feral growl.

His blood sang, heart wild. Billy’s frown deepened, and he tightened his grip, jerked back and slammed their bodies together with an audible slap, using the strength of his arms to pull harder.

“Again…” Harsh whisper.

He did. A few times, sweat breaking out across his skin from the effort of forcing through the resistance Flint’s body rallied against him.

“Harder!” Flint said again, sounding angry.

Billy’s own anger flared in response, and his next stroke went savage. Short and fast and brutal. Flint winced as the breath was punched out of him. Billy realized then what this was, and the knowledge only stoked his temper. He fucked him again, meaning it a little more. Flint’s hands clenched into the sheets. A third time with extra violence, and his whole body flinched in pain as he turned his head away and tried to curl protectively—an instinctive response.

Panting from terrible emotion and effort, Billy stopped, buried in quaking flesh, annoyed and ashamed of himself in equal part as Flint trembled from the hurt. “Look at me,” he said with shaking breath. He slipped one arm free so he could plant his palm on the bed by Flint’s head. He hovered. The captain kept his face turned aside, expression pinched. “James…”

Flint slowly turned his head to look at him, eyes glassy and distant.

Annoyance flooded up Billy’s throat, and the muscle in his jaw jumped. “I’m not a sword for you to fall on,” he told him. “You want to punish yourself, you find another prick.” He waited for a reaction, but Flint just stared at him with a look devoid of any passions. The emptiness made Billy bold. “Otherwise, we’re doing this my way.” The air left the room while he waited, ignoring the ache in his loins, the sweat running down his back and gathering between their pressed skin.

Flint’s chest, shrouded in the folds of his shirt, rose and fell with short, panting breaths. His clenched hands opened. Eventually, James surfaced from Flint’s scowl to give him a slight nod, and Billy’s relief came so cool and thorough it quenched the desire that had fueled him, the fool’s daring.

He let his eyes fall shut and dropped his head. This close, James’s breath washed his chest, hot then cooling. They weren’t going to kiss like this. Lovers kissed like this. And that had not been on offer.

Billy straightened and with closed eyes tried to remember what he liked about being here. How sex tantalized. He liked bodies. How they felt. How they moved. He liked the rounded softness of women. The way their voices sounded in his ear. And the strength of men, the planes of their form.

He still held one leg wrapped around his waist and adjusted his grip until a thick thigh flexed under his palm. He squeezed, stroking with his thumb, opened his eyes to look at the stark contrast between their skin. His fingers tanned from long hours in the sun gripping milk white freckled flesh too delicate seeming for the devil of the sea.

The calluses were thick on his hands, numbing the sensation. But lips… Billy’s breath quickened and he rotated his hips, drawing a sound from them both. Lips are always sensitive. To heat. To shape. With his free hand, he drew his partner’s other leg up and dipped to kiss at the closest spot. Touched the inside of the knee. Flint let out a surprised, unsteady breath. Billy wet his lips and dragged a few more glancing touches further up before he straightened and urged James to wrap this leg around his middle too.

Free from holding Flint’s weight, Billy leaned over, thrusting as he laid on some of his weight and lowered toward the exposed curve of James’s neck. Flint’s cock slid against his stomach, hard and hot, and the friction drew a sound out of him into Billy’s ear. It shot to his groin, lightning and fire. This was what he liked. What he sought. He arched and licked at the salty skin beneath his mouth, rolling his hips at his own pace.

The slide. The sweat. He flicked his tongue hard over a pulse point, earning a low whine. And then thrust, thrust, grinding their bellies to gasps that flirted with sobs. He lost track of when James released the sheets and clutched at him instead, hot hands and cool rings, urging speed. Urging anything.

Pleasure gathered its hot and sparking energy, and Billy sat back up on his knees, flushed and panting. He kept his hips rocking slow, holding the storm just on the horizon. James McGraw gazed up at him exposed and undone, looking wanton. Billy swept a hand down his leg and then for the first time took him in hand. James arched at the touch and shook his head. Billy stroke once, gently. Flint’s breath wheezed out. He stroked again, hard length sliding through sweat and grease-slicked palm, playing his thumb at the slit on the tip. A small, delicious cry escaped, and Billy granted him mercy. Quick quick flicks of his wrist, and then James grunted and clamped around him, legs and ass pulsing as he came.

Billy quivered just on edge himself and thrust faster, letting the storm come with a whitewater crash and satisfied groan. He swayed in a moment of utter silence, seeing stars behind his eyes, and then blinked them open. After a few calming breaths, he glanced down and then very self-consciously withdrew himself. Flint released the hold he’d kept with his legs, and Billy edged back clumsily on the bed pulling up the breeches he’d never fully taken off.

He’d just… fucked Captain Flint.

He was either fucked himself or… or he didn’t know what.

His fingers fumbled with the drawstring, trying to make a knot. He was _good_ with knots. He turned away slightly and stopped, then started the knot again with shaking hands. Holy Christ, what had he just done… He swallowed hard and avoided looking at the form on the bed.

He should get his shirt. And belt. Don’t forget the belt…

He turned quickly, scanning the floor for it, and snatched it up. The jar of lanolin caught his eye on the corner of the bed, and he grabbed that too, filling his big hands with too many things, so he had to struggle to close the jar lid before he could—

“You can stay,” the soft voice of James McGraw said to him. “If you want.”

Billy paused, the jar just tucked back into its proper pouch, and chanced a look. He found James watching him with something sad in his eyes, his shirt pulled down low and soaking through in places. Billy stared at him a moment, unsure, then set the belt and pouches back on the floor. With halting motions, he moved to the closest side of the bed, conscious of James shifting over, and tentatively sat. He couldn’t seem to breathe all the way and wrestled with his own doubt for a moment. Feeling the captain’s eyes on him, he kicked his legs up and laid down, letting his head sink into a pillow.

He stared at the ceiling in silence, listening to James breathe.

He should go.

They weren’t talking. And they weren’t touching. And staying was becoming a worse idea by the second. His guts tightened and started feeling sour, but before he quite reached the breaking point, something in the pattern of the captain’s breathing changed, and Billy knew he was going to speak.

“Why are you here?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious. “I… don’t imagine you harbor feelings for me.” His voice carried a wry smile.

Billy glanced at him while he spoke, then frowned at the ceiling. Feelings? He had plenty of feelings, all competing for time: pity, loyalty, admiration, fear, terror, awe, care.

“I have a feeling or two,” he replied.

Flint huffed. “Hatred?”

He flinched as though slapped and rolled up onto one elbow. Billy scowled down at Flint, affronted. “Did that _feel_ like hatred to you?”

James blinked at his sudden passion, contrite and a little abashed. “No…” he replied, unable to meet Billy’s eye.

The temper fled as quickly as it had come, and Billy swept him with a gaze before dropping back onto the mattress. They fell into silence again, and the wind outside shifted, bringing cool air in through the window.

James played with the cuff of his shirt, rolling it between his fingers. When he spoke, his voice came out whispered and tentative. “You’re not… disgusted?” he asked, tripping over the word. “Ashamed?”

There was something brittle in that question. Billy turned to look at him, and he met the gaze, searching for a reply. He was serious. Perhaps deadly so. Billy grinned and laughed a little. “I grew up on a pirate ship and learned to fuck in a whorehouse.” He shook his head and settled back to study the ceiling. “Did you think they were all women?”

“I…”

He smirked. Billy Bones, striking the captain dumb. He smiled lazily to himself and shrugged. “It’s all the same. You know?” He glanced over to find the dull glaze gone from the captain’s green eyes, echoes of the color of the sea. “So… no. I guess it never occurred to me to feel either.”

Flint nodded, and his throat worked as he swallowed. Billy watched him stroke at his beard absently and press his mouth to a thin, thoughtful line. Melancholy concern flooded Billy’s chest when he thought about it a bit longer. Why the captain would ask him this. What it must say about the life he’d lived as James McGraw.

Billy eased himself over onto his stomach and crossed his arms under the pillow, letting the cooling night air ripple across his back. They lay silent for some time, listening to men shouting out in the streets. Strains of music drifted in the air over their boorish voices.

James let out an amused breath. _“Canon in D,”_ he whispered.

Billy wasn’t sure what cannons had to do with anything, but he couldn’t stop listening for the faint sound of the piano. He shut his eyes and tried to let the languid sleepiness pressing him into the bed take him under, but he could feel something pulling at his attention. It was the same sensation he got on the ship when Flint’s gaze landed on him. A gaze like that has pressure and purpose. Flint could turn on ice and fire. He could pin your soul with a glare, an arresting luminosity. Billy used to fear being under that intensity, sure he would shrivel beneath it. But yearn for it, too. Gods only look at the glorious, for what interest could they have in the mundane? A nod of approval, a kind smile. Those were a polish to the tarnish of a man’s being.

Even with his eyes closed, Billy could feel Flint’s regard and wondered what it meant.

He jumped a little when fingers touched his arm and then cracked open his eyes as Flint’s palm came to settle on his bicep. Billy turned his head so he could watch. Flint lay on his side, propped up on one arm and reaching out with the other. He stroked Billy’s arm with his thumb, sending shivers down Billy’s back.

“What?” Billy asked him softly.

James didn’t answer. His gaze traveled from where his hand lay caressing hard muscle down the rest of his form. Billy lay still under the inspection, his breathing quickening a little more with each absent, light touch.

“You’re right,” Flint said eventually. “You’re not him…” He moved his hand finally, smoothing over a shoulder blade like he had never seen such wondrous country. The body of a sailor must be quite different from a London lord, Billy thought. Thicker. Rougher. He couldn’t tell if there was a note of disappointment in the captain’s observation.

Billy rolled slowly onto his back, so Flint’s fingers fell to his chest. He touched gently, frowning, marking one pec with a circular trail of heat, swirling around the nipple until it hardened. Billy shuddered and clenched his hands, not knowing what to do with them.

“What do you want from me?” James asked, sounding lost and uncertain as he watched his own hand bring the other nipple to point.

Billy’s brows drew together in a frown, feeling oddly vulnerable while he let himself be aroused in this quiet, reverent way. “I already told you that,” he said.

James met his eyes for a moment, recalling the night they hadn’t talked about. “A small speck,” he said, already letting his eyes fall shut in defeat and shaking his head. “I… I can’t, I don’t—”

“I know.” Billy broke the spell holding him motionless and touched Flint’s face, emboldened without that gaze keeping him captive. “I know.”

Flint’s expression cracked a little with despair, and he nuzzled into Billy’s hand with eyes still shut. “Then _why_ are you here?” he whispered, desperate this time.

“Because we need a plan,” Billy answered honestly, not gauging his words.

Flint winced out of his touch and drew back his hand.

“Because there’s no one else like you,” Billy added quickly, and that got a reaction--opened eyes and a curious gaze. “You have to know that.” Everyone knew that. “There’s _no one_ else like you. You read _all_ the time. Culture. History.” He gestured to the open window. “Cannons in D”—James’s mouth twitched—“You’re not just… some… some… _pirate_.”

Flint huffed and looked away at the compliment. “I’m not a good man…”

“No…” Billy reached out this time, tracing down James’s neck and shoulder with a finger, making him shiver despite the heat. “But… neither am I.” He shrugged.

Flint shot him a sharp look.

“What?” Billy lifted a shoulder defensively. “I’ve killed. Robbed.”

“But your moral compass still works.”

He propped himself up on his arm to bring them level and chuckled. “Is that what you think the days ahead are gonna need? Moral fiber?”

Flint gave him a long look. The music outside the window stopped, and they stared at one another. Billy lifted his eyebrows, and Flint’s face darkened with a scowl.

“No,” he said.

Billy nodded once and settled back down, fixing his captain with a look of regret. “Me neither.”


End file.
